


Trading Assets

by captainoutoftime



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SHIELD has been rebooted, Torture, and HYDRA is still a huge bag of dicks, if i missed any triggers you'd like tagged just let me know and I will tag them immediately, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainoutoftime/pseuds/captainoutoftime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SHIELD is fighting one of its first battles as a newly-reformed organization, when Captain America is taken hostage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trading Assets

Steve woke slowly, breaths gradually picking up pace as he returned to consciousness. His eyelids felt weighted, like his lashes had somehow changed in density since he’d last held them open. His mind was slow as he tried to put the pieces together, like he was walking through thigh-deep snow. He’d been…he’d…he’d been running. He’d been running, and it had been loud and hot and he’d been…he’d been running for a reason, he was sure, but the details were to slippery to handle just yet, when he was still so tired, and ached so badly.

He groaned quietly and tried to shift his weight off of his knees, rattling the heavy cuffs that bound his wrists. Steve’s eyes shot open wide, instantly alert. Cuffs? He was being restrained? Angling his neck around to look, he found a ridiculously huge shackle holding each wrist, hand, and about half his forearm captive, keeping his arms at an awkward angle straight behind and up that made his shoulders ache from holding up most of his body weight. Steve gave one a cursory jerk, but got no give at all. The moment of silent disappointment was broken by another realization ushered in by his sudden state of awareness.

It was freezing cold.

His every breath fogged in the air, and the concrete floor burned a chill into his quickly-numbing knees. He shifted his feet around to try sitting on them instead, to keep his more sensitive parts off the freezing floor. Steve couldn’t lift his head too high from where it hung about half a foot off the floor without jamming his hands into the wall- metal, of some kind, maybe steel- but he couldn’t let his weight hang down, either, without straining his shoulders even more. There was a wicked slash in his right bicep that he didn’t remember getting. Though it hurt, and was still bleeding profusely, Steve was sure it hadn’t been meant to weaken him- these people obviously understood his strength. He let out a slow sigh when the pieces clicked into place, finally. His tracker. They’d taken out his tracker chip. Steve craned his neck up as best he could to look around- hoping to see a warning sign or a label of some variety on the wall so he could guess at where in the world he was being held. It was mostly quiet, but for the constant, engine-like buzz that permeated the chill air. Machine. A big one, very close by. Steve made a mental note of that as he examined his largely featureless prison, illuminated by a single, bare bulb in the ceiling. Save for himself and the heavy shackles, the room was empty. Metal walls, concrete floor, metal chains. One door, which did not have a handle. A blinking light in the opposite corner from him. A camera, no doubt. A rectangular box housed said light, which he assumed was a speaker, or a microphone, or maybe both.

Torture, then, he concluded grimly, was a highly likely possibility. He’d never really considered his potential as a hostage, but he imagined that many would pay through the nose for a highly trained super soldier. And SHIELD, the infant organization he’d just helped to reboot, they’d do whatever it took to get him back, right? Steve pulled on the chains again, this time, harder, still nothing happened. He let out a slow exhale, watching it form a short-lived cloud before his face, and pulled another breath in. Panic was the real enemy here, more than the searing pain in his back, the only part of him that felt warm. He could keep it together, he promised himself. He was Captain America, and he could handle a little waiting game.

* * *

 

Bucky had screamed. Steve had done nothing but shove. He shoved Bucky out of the way, and stupid punk, stupid kid, he’d let the Doombot hit him full force, knocking him off the side of the boat. Steve was a strong, capable swimmer, but he was also exhausted and fighting an evil robot. They’d immediately searched the water and found nothing. Bucky had nearly jumped over himself- would have, too, if Thor hadn’t physically restrained him, if Natasha hadn’t scared, coerced and begged him off the edge. Steve was fine, Bucky had babbled as they’d regrouped, Steve’d be fine because he always was, wasn’t he? The punk was always okay, he was a tough kid, he was, and you shoulda seen him when he’d get sick, what a fighter he was, he’s still that stubborn, he’s gonna be fine, he always is. He has to be.

Bucky needed him to be okay. He needed him to be okay, and Steve was the only one who always knew what Bucky needed. But he wasn’t here to say so and make it okay. So he paced and threatened. Their equipment had taken a lot of hits, he’d been told by an annoyingly patronizing technician. Things would be fine, he’d been told, if people would leave him alone for ten goddamn minutes to fix it. But ten minutes passed, then an hour, then ten, and then…then…finally, their systems were back up, and Steve was off the map. Any geographical tracer he’d had on him was gone. The chip must have been destroyed.

Bucky didn’t believe in God anymore, but he prayed anyway, for Steve. He prayed that, if there was a God, He would bring Steve home. Nobody deserved a little divine intervention like Steve did, sweet kid that…no. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a man. A good man. The best, maybe ever, Bucky often thought, usually when he watched Steve laughing, or when he managed to rescue him from the terrors in his own head, with gentle, warm hands, soft words, and the lovingly patient heart he’d always had.

* * *

They didn’t come to bring him food or water, or even threats, and he had no way to track how long it had been. It felt like years, in this timeless space. He hadn’t been able to feel his toes in all the time he’d been here. Steve needed to do something. The waiting game was over, because he was done playing. He tugged on the chains, experimenting with the few angles he was capable of executing without hurting himself worse. Sleep deprivation was making him weary, and the panic he’d been working to suppress was creeping towards the surface with alarming speed in his less vigilant state. Steve’s body was wracked with constant, and increasingly violent shivers, but he tried to take a calm breath before twisting his arm, yanking as hard as he could on the chain, hoping to break his thumb to get out of the shackle. The finger would heal. He grunted in pain, pulling harder, his whole body tensing as he strained against the frigid metal. Blood seeped over the edge of the cuff as it bit into his arm. What started as a grunt escalated to a throaty yell, until he finally relented, panting. Several fingers pulsed with hot pain- broken, it felt like, but he’d made absolutely zero progress. He’d always been stubborn, though, and it didn’t stop him from trying again, leaning forward on his knees, body almost parallel to the floor as he shouted, trying to pull his hands free. ****

* * *

Director Coulson, the fatherly one that Steve seemed to share a special bond with, came and rustled Bucky out of his lurking spot. Even his most icy glare did nothing to dissuade the man, and for that, Bucky decided that he liked Coulson too. The search clock was at hour 23, and crisis room was abuzz with what seemed like renewed activity. Most of it just gave him a headache, but immediately as he walked through the door, his eyes found a familiar figure on the huge screen up front. Steve. They had Steve. Captive. Chained. Steve. His Steve.

“SHIELD just got this, still trying to work out the source,” Coulson explained. “It’s live.”

Bucky stared at the screen, blinking fast and wishing that he could scrub away this memory too.

* * *

 

The cold was building up dangerously fast. His uniform, soaked from the sea, was beginning to freeze to his skin. The fabric clung to his form with teeth, and every movement was a bite, the frost tearing his skin so that the blood could freeze, too. Any movement ripped his skin, and even though his teeth were gritted tightly, he was whimpering from the constant refreshing of pain. But if he stopped moving, he’d die. Steve was sure that this environment wasn’t quite cold enough to flash-freeze him like before, too slow to work as a cryo chamber like the one that had held Bucky. This would kill him if he let it. But he was so tired. And shaking with pain and cold. And he was scared. Steve rocked himself side to side, ignoring how badly it hurt his shoulders to do so, ignoring the fact that he couldn’t feel the hands that dripped blood down his arms- movement meant life. Stillness would kill him. And he couldn’t die. He couldn’t die when he had a team out there that he loved, and new friends to make, and more movies to see and songs to listen to. He had someone to come home to, a home. He cooked, and Bucky did the dishes. He laid on the right side of the bed, Bucky the left, and he woke up whenever Bucky had a bad dream, woke up and snuggled him close until he fell asleep again. Bucky needed him, somewhere out there, and Steve couldn’t just leave him. He would not. Not again.

He reached grim determination just when his constant shivering abruptly changed into jolts, sharp, singular convulsions that made him feel like his arms were being ripped from his sides and his neck was seconds from snapping. Steve gritted his teeth through the first few. Then came a convulsion that twisted his torso, and his skin ripped from left hip to right collarbone. He started screaming, and he couldn’t stop.

* * *

Some of the doctors looked at the screen, murmuring quietly and taking notes, pointing out things they’d need to help heal. They looked…interested. Watching the skin knit back together, the blood keep flowing and flowing even when Steve should have bled out hours ago. They were intrigued. Bucky hated them for it, deciding immediately to ensure they would not be involved in Steve’s care. They were too curious to be sympathetic. Too scientific to put the man first.

He’d had enough bad experiences with scientists like that.

Bucky couldn’t stand to watch the video for too long, but he couldn’t rip his eyes away for that long either. The combination of Steve’s muffled cries of pain with the visual was just too much. In the moments that made him feel like he might retch, he looked away, crossing people off the list, adding others. A young man who sat perfectly still, expression a twisted mask of horror. Perfect. More sobs, a flick of the eyes to the screen. Bucky took a breath and looked away. An older woman who watched the soldier convulse with a detached manner. No. She looked almost like she was already dissecting him. Bucky could not find Steve, but he could make sure they were ready when someone else did.

"I’m a spy with computer skills, I’m not a professional. This is encrypted and encoded beyond what I know," Natasha said through gritted teeth, glaring up at Sharon.

"Who’s faster then?" Agent Thirteen asked crisply, directing the clipped question to the room at large.

There was silence but for the now-constant screams of pain for a brief moment before Coulson spoke, looking up from where he’d stared morosely at the screen. “I have an agent who can do it. She may be the best we’ve ever had. She’s on the way, she should be here in five minutes.”

Thirteen nodded once, sweeping from the room to collect her.

Bucky was back to staring at the screen, one hand making dents in the railing he gripped, squeezing like it might give up the coordinates he needed if he just forced it harder. He turned, watching the two young girls that Sharon ushered into the room. The dark haired one stared at the screen for just a few moments, jaw dropped and doe eyes wide with horror. Just a moment, and then she sat down, immediately diving into her work with a look of fierce concentration. Good. The other girl began speaking softly with the other doctors, eyes wide and shocked, even a little red, but her voice sure enough. She sounded like Peggy, from what he remembered of her. Bucky watched her hands. Steady. Good. He chose her for his list too, and having firmed it up, planned to give it to Coulson. Bucky approached him, swallowing to try and keep his voice flat, but before he could speak, he was interrupted by the dark haired girl.

"We’ve got a hit!" Coulson’s computer girl said excitedly, "I know where he is!"

The room exploded into action, only to stop a few seconds later as sound began to boom through the speakers almost like it was a response to her words, horrifying enough to still every single person who heard it: a terrifying kind of laughter, edged with hysteria and utter terror, the kind of laugh made by the insane, by the dying. But…it was Steve’s laugh. It was Steve’s laugh, but warped and twisted and ruined. The sound gave him chills.

* * *

Steve wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold together. Everything was splintering. His vision. His skin. His mind. The crystals of ice on his uniform. Splitting and breaking apart. He swore he could hear it. Shattering like glass dropped from the third story, diamonds on the pavement below, sun sparkling on the ruin enough to make it look like treasure to two kids with nothing, kids too young to think of bleeding feet before pirate booty.

He was screaming still. He wondered if his throat would bleed, fill with blood and drown him and then at least he wouldn’t be cold anymore. Those were his constants. Cold. The buzzing. Pain. His friends, the cold, the sound, the hurt.

He could handle the shoulders popped out, numb hands, and arms sending waves of agony through his body with every strained breath. But not the cold. He could handle the solitary confinement, the depressing dark that breathed life into his every fear. But not the cold seeping through his very bones. He could have handled the pain. Just not the cold. He didn’t even mind the constant buzzing, the mechanical him that sounded almost like-

Like a fridge.

Or a freezer.

The laughter bubbled up out of his abused throat unbidden, and unstoppably. They’d put him in a freezer. He had to give them credit for that. A freezer. Capsicle part two, put the man in an ice cube tray and wait a few days, then remove and enjoy! He couldn’t stop laughing, half-screaming the sound like letting it out could bleed away the horror of it all. Steve hadn’t said a word, nothing but wordless cries in the whole time he’d been imprisoned, but one name pushed at the forefront of his mind, his last tether to what remained of his sanity. The sickening laughter transitioned with a hiccuping sob back into screaming- one name over and over.

He could’ve been seven years old and lost at Coney Island, running as fast as he could so that he didn’t get trampled by the mass exodus of screaming people, running from the fire that had broken out in a tent. “Bucky! Bucky! Bucky, help me!” But all he could hear was roaring and screaming, and tears dripped down his face. He could’ve been seven, but these tears froze on his cheeks and Bucky wasn’t there, pulling him to safety and hugging him like he’d been just as scared. “You dumb kid,” Bucky had choked out, hugging the smaller boy too tight, brushing his hair back as he held them both away from the stampede of people. “I wasn’t gonna lose ya, Stevie.”

They’d been saying ‘I love you’ without the words for as long as he could remember.

But Bucky wasn’t here now. And he was very lost.

* * *

Bucky kept an earpiece in, playing the audio feed instead of silence whenever the extraction team wasn’t talking. He felt almost like he deserved to hear it. His name. Steve cried for him. Steve was always there when Bucky cried out at night, when the Soldier could not find his way back to James, when he couldn’t breathe from all the deaths crushing down on him. Steve was always there, all warmth and big gentle hands, all soft words in his ear, sweet kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, strong arms around him, holding him together. Constant as the Earth under his feet.

Every broken voice in his head agreed now. They would save Steve. And then, they would rip the life from whoever had done this to him. They’d kill, and they’d do it laughing the same twisted laugh their Steve had been infected with.

* * *

 

He could’ve been six and scared of Fridays again, because Fridays were when Papa drank the money and got angry at everything, mostly at Steve and Mama though. Six and hiding under the table, sobbing silently, waiting for what he knew would come, waiting to get dragged out from his hiding place and screamed at, told things he already knew. That he was weak. Not a man at all. Pathetic. Steve was clinging to consciousness like the table leg, holding on with desperate but weak fingers. He could’ve been six again, praying for a rescue that wasn’t going to come. Six and giving up inch by inch, blow by blow, shallow breath by increasingly shallow breath. Steve couldn't find the energy to scream anymore. He wasn't sure when he'd stopped, when he'd given up to a ragged gasping instead. Bucky hadn’t been able to save him when he was six. Death had saved him, death and one drink too many for Joseph Rogers. Death, it seemed, would have to save him again. He'd greeted the reaper with an open door and a crashing plane once. He would greet him like a friend now, because friends were the ones who came to the rescue.

* * *

Thor smashed the door in with his hammer and Bucky raced inside. Steve hung limply, like a rag doll. He’d been absolutely silent for four hours now, and Bucky was terrified.

“Steve! Steve, Steve, wake up,” he pleaded, hands cradling his face, heart racing a tick faster- even his neck felt cold. For eight heart-stopping breaths, Bucky felt no pulse. He finally found it as terror built up a manic rhythm. It was sluggish, barely there, but present. That would have to be enough. Thor braced a foot on the wall and ripped the shackles out one by one, grunting as he pulled. Steve collapsed against Bucky as his arms fell free.

"Move quickly," Thor urged, checking the hallway as Bucky cradled Steve’s prone form in his arms.

The fingers of his left hand clawed through the metal shackles, tearing at it until Steve’s beaten hands were free, too. He almost wished he hadn’t- the usually neat fingernails were ragged, and his fingers- oh- his perfect artist’s fingers were swollen like sausages, broken and rebroken and healed all wrong. Bucky didn’t pay attention to much of their escape, just followed behind as Thor covered them, called all the shots as they got out, made sure that everyone was okay when they finally made it back to the Helicarrier.

Steve was unconscious still. Bucky hovered close by as the medical team lowered him carefully into a tub of lukewarm water so as not to shock his system too badly. As the uniform lost it’s frosty grip on Steve’s skin, they began cutting it off so they could start treating his abused body. Not-Peggy-Coulson’s-Girl was shaking her head, eyes red still. She sniffled a little and murmured gently to him as she began stitching up the deep cuts. Bucky choked as he watched the water turn red, but he didn’t move from where the girl- Jemma, she said, but everyone kept referring to her as Simmons- had told him to stay, cradling Steve’s head above the level of the water. Probably just to make him feel like he was doing something to help. She murmured to a man standing by a large hologram of Steve’s body. Bucky tried not to look away from Steve’s golden lashes, so long they nearly touched his cheek, but his eyes strayed anyway.

His shoulders were swollen and red from the joints popping out and his body trying to heal around them. Bucky loved his shoulders, always had, loved when they were thin and sharp when hugged, loved them when they’d shaken with coughs, loved them when they were strong and round and seemed to bear the weight of the world. The shoulders he loved were warped from abuse now. Where was he supposed to rest his chin now?

"Sergeant Barnes."

How could he still be unconscious? Steve had to be in agony, he’d been ripped to pieces and half-healed all wrong. He hoped he’d stay asleep until at least they were done cleaning him up. God, if he woke up when they were trying to move him, what a disaster that would be-

"Sergeant Barnes," Jemma said, touching his forearm gently to get his attention.

It took Bucky another moment to realize that that title belonged to him, too.

"We’re going to pop his shoulders back in- we need you to help, I don’t have the strength, and I don’t want to hurt him worse or extend the pain any longer than necessary," Jemma talked fast, chittering like a little bird. "If you could switch places with me, I’ll hold him up and you just- when we count to three-"

"One," the wide-eyed young man counted, firm voice not at all what Bucky had expected. "Two. Three."

As a unit, a small group on Steve’s other side pushed, ramming the shoulder back into its joint as Bucky did the same.

Steve inhaled sharply, eyes flying wide at last. The beautiful blue that Bucky loved wasn’t its usual warm-May-afternoon self: Steve looked like a trapped animal, eyes darting around, too wide, terrified. Panicked, shallow breaths for just a moment, and then he started yelling, a low guttural noise that would’ve been a scream if his throat hadn’t been so raw, thrashing against everyone’s hands in a desperate struggle to free himself. Desperate, and weak, even for a normal man. Bucky hated to think what that meant for Steve.

"Steve! Steve, it’s okay, it’s okay," Bucky pleaded, pulling an arm around Steve’s torso as he hefted himself with shaking hands half-out of the tub. "Shh, shh, Steve, I’m here, you’re safe," he soothed, smoothing his hair back in constant strokes. "S’okay Stevie, you’re okay, it’s over now, it’s all over, you’re home and I’m here, I’ve got you," he rambled, thumb brushing across his cheek as he cupped Steve’s jaw.

Steve whimpered, shuddering with the exertion of just sitting up. His wide, frightened eyes found Bucky’s, trembling hands gripping his shirt. Bucky held him close, fingers touching some place on back where his skin had broken, and Jemma gasped.

They’d carved into his back, whoever they were. A single word, a message. ‘TAG’. Bucky almost vomited. Tag, you’re it. You took our asset and we took yours. Tag, you’re it. A warning. This was HYDRA work, meant to inspire fear. It did. Bucky removed his hand as the male doctor began to treat the deep lacerations, cradling Steve’s head instead.

Jemma pulled the plug in the tub, allowing the water to drain around him, and bustled out of the room, bringing back a pile of soft clothing for him. The medical staff began to bind up the cuts, replacing his tracker as they did.

Bucky grunted as he lifted Steve up out of the tub, supporting all of his weight as he set him onto the gurney. Steve shivered violently, and even still, he felt cold to the touch. His hands trembled uncontrollably, still clinging to the front of Bucky’s shirt, but his fingers were nowhere close to healing. His artist’s fingers, dexterous and subtle, both careful and strong- swollen, destroyed, bruised.

They’d ruined Steve’s hands.

Bucky swallowed hard and kept murmuring softly as he toweled Steve off. A few of the other doctors tried to help, but their touches made him stiffen and squeeze his eyes shut, breaths dipping shallower and heartbeat racing. Jemma didn’t frighten him, though, and neither did the fidgety man who spoke to her while gesticulating to the holograph, but the only touches that made Steve’s eyes open were Bucky’s.

* * *

He could feel warm cotton against his skin. The material was so incredibly soft, but against his broken skin, it almost felt like sandpaper. He was still shivering, though he could tell that it was warm in the room. Steve kept his eyes shut, because there was a buzzing noise like the freezer here and shiny silver like the freezer, and if he could just focus on the warm pants and the soft shirt, maybe he wouldn’t start screaming again.

A voice in his ear. Familiar, comforting, quiet. And ridged with pain, too. A warm hand cupping his cheek, a strong hand rubbing his back- Bucky. Steve opened his eyes, knowing that the background would fade to a blur if Bucky was there. His lips were moving, but the buzz felt somehow inescapable, like it was getting louder. Freezer buzzing instead of words. Steve wanted to cling to Bucky tighter, but his hands hurt to move. He whimpered as he tried to make a fist in Bucky’s shirt, unable to actually close the hand. Bucky was still talking, but the buzzing was making Steve dizzy. He felt sick again, but he tried not to retch. Bucky brushed his hair back and Steve fought to keep himself from sobbing into his chest. Words. Words. Listen.

"You need to eat something, Stevie," Bucky was murmuring. "Can you walk? It’s okay if you can’t, baby. Do you want to sleep a little first? Steve. Steve," he pleaded, "Please answer me."

He sounded scared. Steve hoped he wouldn’t collapse into one of his panic attacks, because he just didn’t know how he’d help him out of it. Even on his best days, Steve struggled with finding the strength to pull Bucky out. Now, all he had to do was answer. That couldn’t be so hard. Answer.

"Bucky," he choked, voice harsh and raspy from abuse.

Steve knew it wasn’t strictly an answer, but Bucky looked relieved nonetheless, smiling that same sad, scared smile.

“I’m here, Steve. I’m here now. You’re safe.” He wrapped a blanket around Steve’s shoulders, hugging it around him, trying to set Steve’s hands in his lap. He fought that, wanting to hold onto him with the stiffened, claw-like fingers. Bucky took both his hands by the wrist, very gently kissing the swollen knuckles. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m staying. I won’t go anywhere, Steve, I promise. Here til the end of the line, punk, remember?”

He did remember.

They’d been saying ‘I love you’ without the words for as long as he could remember.

Steve nodded weakly, allowing Bucky to caress his fingers with a feather-light touch. He blinked a few times, pulling on the edges of the blanket to curl it around his body. Bucky re-tucked it around him, tighter this time, murmuring a few words to the soft-spoken girl, who nodded and swept from the room with someone who might have been her twin. Bucky was talking again, but Steve was numb to the world. Numb to the pain, numb to the comforting sounds his lover made, numb even, to the soft kisses that he pressed to his cheeks, his forehead. He didn’t remember laying down, or moving to a different room, for that matter. He was ice cold numb, but he could manage to keep Bucky in focus. He remembered Bucky’s hands pulling a blanket up around his chin, his lips against Steve’s temple, Bucky’s body settling next to his own, warm and solid, his heartbeat in Steve’s ear, loud enough to drown out the freezer-buzzing.

* * *

Looking at him was terrifying. Steve’s eyes were empty- except when they held pain and fear. Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if that was how his had looked, when Steve dropped his shield, when he’d fought the wall of memories that his best friend brought with him. Steve kept shivering, hours after his body temperature returned to normal. Bucky held him as tight as he dared, smoothing back his hair, kissing him- he even sang a little. He got through the whole song three times before he realized it was the same one he’d sung when Steve had nearly died from pneumonia. He stopped singing. Oddly, it seemed to have calmed Steve into a much-needed slumber. He passed out into an uneasy sleep not long after, exhausted.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been asleep, but it had evidently been long enough for the carrier to land. Most people had already been flown to shore, judging by the relative quiet. Steve was still sleeping, breaths slow and deep, and Bucky was loath to wake him. In sleep, the pain wasn’t as obvious. He looked younger. Bucky traced a finger down Steve’s jawline, recalling a time when it was not quite so strong, but just as beautiful. He almost wished Steve was still that skinny kid sometimes. It would be easier, wouldn’t it, if their problems just involved paying the rent and buying enough food. Bucky could be the one who held Steve together again. And Steve would still be the strong one, but less people would beg for him to share his strength with them. Less people would appeal to his good heart, beseech him to take their problems away. And then he wouldn’t have so much weighing him down, and he could look this soft all the time.

Steve’s expression twisted a little, brows tugging together as a soft little murmur left his lips. Bucky smiled softly, plastering the expression up there for Steve’s benefit. He stroked the soft blond hair back as he waited for him to wake up. Minutes went by, and Steve’s eyes opened. Bucky swallowed when he saw them. Always expressive, they betrayed every ragged edge in Steve’s mind, every fear and every bit of exhaustion. It broke his heart to see. Bucky could empathize now, with what Steve had been dealing with. He had plenty of experience with trying to fix someone- but only ever physically. He had plenty of experience feeling helpless, but never against an unseen enemy.

“Hey, punk," he whispered, the words nearly choking on the way out.

* * *

Steve woke up to gentle fingers in his hair, Bucky’s heartbeat in his ears, warmth, and the soapy-clean-musk scent of him in his nose. For a moment, that was all. Just a slow, morning set of sensations, familiar and safe. The hardness of Bucky’s left arm around his back, press of the gurney’s edge in his shoulder-

And like that, the one out-of-place detail ripped the felt from his eyes, and he remembered only too clearly why he was here, what had happened, how it all had felt…

His eyes opened, because the darkness was too frightening to deal with. Bucky was staring at him with blue eyes full of hurt, and Steve felt guilty, immediately. It was his job to help, to make him feel better, and he wasn’t doing that at all, he was hurting him, he was making it worse, he was adding to his collection of scars he-

Steve blinked a few times at the nickname. It had been so long since Bucky had used it. Punk. He still was that punk, in Bucky’s eyes.

And that was immeasurably comforting. Not Captain America, not an Avenger. Not a leader in the brand-new SHIELD. Not an agent, or a moral compass, or an idol, or a cartoon figure. Just Steve. A punk from Brooklyn, picking fights he couldn’t finish. Just Steve. He smiled, and it was a worn one, filled with traces of sadness and exhaustion, but it was genuine.

"Jerk."

They’d been saying ‘I love you’ without the words for as long as he could remember.

****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I could say I wrote this for deep reasons, but mostly I wanted to be evil... And I do like to see the reversal of one of the fandom's (and my) favorite tropes: Steve taking care of Bucky post-WS. And I absolutely love that- it's on my list of things to write next- but I like the reversal, too, because it's rather natural. For so long, Bucky was the one taking care of Steve, and a lifetime of watching someone's back and worrying over them are hard habits to break.
> 
> I may continue this as a little series of one-shots, if there's interest. And if I have time...
> 
> This is for Megan. Your Bucky is inspiring, and your writing is inspiring. YOU are inspiring, and I'm so glad you're my friend.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at http://captain-outoftime.tumblr.com
> 
>    
> Thanks for reading, everyone.


End file.
